


Queueing Was Invented By The British (To Irritate Impatient Americans)

by reliquiaen



Category: Agents of SHIELD - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reliquiaen/pseuds/reliquiaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - "England would be her code name henceforth – and this strange change-room-line woman was completely responsible for her subconscious using the word 'henceforth'. How British could she get?" - Sometimes... just maybe, long queues aren't as bad as they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queueing Was Invented By The British (To Irritate Impatient Americans)

It was at times like these Skye wished there were such things as chairs you could sit in while waiting in line. Come on, she’s not British; queueing is not something she enjoys. Although she only makes that assumption because of that one sci-fi movie she watched involving depressed robots and a giant stone head. Or something. Point is, she wished she had a wheelchair. Because standing around waiting for a change room to become available is kinda not how she wanted to spend her day.

And it’s really, really lame.

Lines at the ladies’ toilets after a concert? Fine, those she could handle. In fact, Skye’s pretty sure they’re even in the fine print of Life’s handbook.

But a change room at a clothing store? No. Not good enough. Put more stalls in.

The shirt she’s waiting to try on waves at her side as she sucked in a deep breath and flopped her arm. Being irritated didn’t make the line move faster, duh, but moving about in a vaguely irritated fashion at least kept the blood circulating. 

“That’s because your opinion isn’t valid,” someone (who – amusingly – sounded distinctly British) called from behind her.

Skye couldn’t stop from smirking and twisting to see what was going on. Curiosity is a basic human trait, after all. It’s what gets all those stupid people killed in horror movies. Because, dude, seriously, if you _touch_ the strange organic alien thing that you’ve decided could be an egg and it _hatches_ , then whatever horrible death you die is _your fault_. She sighed internally. Movie people are really dumb.

Anyway, the British person hollering through the store smiled at her gently, going red, obviously embarrassed to have been so loud. She was slightly shorter than Skye with auburn hair pulled up into a neat ponytail, hazel eyes looking at the floor (or maybe at her faded red converse). She kept muttering to herself, trying not to make eye contact with anyone and with her nose wrinkled up in what Skye could only presume was frustration with herself… yeah, okay it was kinda cute.

The woman shuffled a hefty pile of clothing in her arms, a few hangers swaying from one wrist. Honestly, she even _dressed_ like a Brit. Who the hells wears a black and white polka dot blouse like that with a freaking blazer and jeans. What’s up with that? She suddenly felt rather self-conscious about her grey plaid shirt and cargo pants. Underdressed, that’s the word. Wow.

Skye’s initial assessment that she’s pretty adorable stands. Weirdly enough. Even with the strange clothing. How she pulls it off is anyone’s guess.

“Who were you yelling at?” Skye found herself asking, despite the little voice in her head telling her it’s a _terrible_ idea. Awful. Too late.

The woman looked up, startlement written in big neon letters across her face. “Oh,” she gasped. “Who? Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Skye laughed. “Nobody else screamed that across the shop.”

As before, a tinge of red crept across her cheeks. “I’d hardly deem it _screaming_ ,” she muttered. “But it was my friend. He seems to think he’s qualified to tell me whether any of this looks good or not. As if he would know. He still thinks he could be one of the ‘cool kids’ if he wore chains on his belt and a baseball cap. Honestly, he’s the _last_ person I would ask fashion advice from. You’re higher on that list than he is. I mean…”

Skye kept grinning as the woman trailed off, eyes flying away from any direction that could even vaguely be termed ‘looking at Skye’. It was funny. She pointed at the clothes. “Do you want my opinion,” Skye asked carefully.

“Do I want…” she spluttered. “Opinion? On these? Oh no, no. Not at all. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? I’m pretty into fashion,” Skye told her with what she hoped was a perfectly straight face. “As you can no doubt tell.” The last was accompanied with a gesture at her current attire.

The woman’s mouth flailed for a moment (and Skye was getting thoroughly sick of thinking about her in such vague terms. England would be her code name henceforth – and this strange change-room-line woman was completely responsible for her subconscious using the word ‘henceforth’. How British could she get?). “I couldn’t impose,” England whined slowly. “It might be weird.”

Skye shrugged. “It’s not that hard. You put the clothes on and I tell you if I think it looks good. Easy peasy.”

England looked dubious. Dubious? Sure, roll with it. “Well,” she all but sang. “If you’re sure?”

“Course I’m sure,” Skye declared, thankful to have something other than how _boring_ it is to wait in a line to think about. “So what’s the occasion?”

“Oh.” England looked down at the clothes again, adjusting them some more. “My brother is getting married. Since his fiancée is not such a big fan of mine, I’m not a bridesmaid. Not that I mind, you understand, this is his day and I’m really happy for him. It’s just that it means I have to pick out my own clothes and I’m so very indecisive about it and–”

“So long as it looks nice I think you’ll be fine,” Skye opined, cutting across her carefully. “It is his wedding after all. Don’t want to overshadow him.” She had to very forcefully stop her mouth from firing out ‘although that might be hard, maybe wear something rather bland, just in case’. Might come off the wrong way and all that.

The other woman nodded along as if it made perfect sense. “Yes, and based on my calculations, these offer the most possibilities.”

“Wait,” Skye interjected before England could go on another rambling tangent. “Calculations?”

“Yes. Based on the golden ratio’s projection of how attractive the bride will be on her wedding day, these dresses offer the best balance between trying to look nice myself and being gracious about it. It took me and Fitz _days_ to work through the algorithm but… What?”

Skye knew she was grinning like an absolute moron, but she couldn’t stop it. “You can’t…” she waved her hands, trying to find the word she wanted. But it didn’t exist. She settled for the next best thing. “You can’t _maths_ your way to being pretty. It’s all genes and colour choices and interpretations and way too much alcohol.”

“That’s what Fitz said,” England grumbled. “Apparently beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“You sound like you don’t believe it.”

“Mathematically speaking–”

“Stop. No.” Skye said decisively before more slander could slip from that pretty mouth and into the real world. “Your Fitz is right. Maybe there are forumlas–”

“Formulae.”

“Whatever. Those things might exist to tell you what stereotypical beauty is, but it’s all semantics so just try on the dresses and I’ll give you my two cents. Alright? No more maths.”

A shy smile ghosted across England’s face and she rolled her eyes. “Fine. But there are still a few people before you.”

“You go first. I just want to know if this is the right size. It’ll take me like… three seconds.”

“All the more reason for you to go first,” England protested.

“But if I find out if it’s the right size, I might decide I don’t really care about your little pickle and leave. It would be horrible of me, but I might. Let me retain a certain level of motivation.”

England sighed, but she was smiling, which seemed like it might be a good thing.

“So who’s Fitz?” Skye asked, needing another topic to investigate while they waited.

“He’s my best friend,” England told her simply.

“And his name is Fitz?” Skye scrunched up her face. “Were his parents high?”

England actually laughed at that. It was a wonderful sound. “Oh, no. His name is Leopold, but he hates it. Everyone just calls him Fitz. It’s his surname,” she clarified.

“I repeat: were his parents high? What kind of a name is Leopold?”

“A family name. He was called for his grandfather,” England explained. “I quite like just Leo, though. It sounds fierce.”

“It’s a star sign,” Skye muttered. “The lion right?”

“Yes. He’s certainly loyal enough for the sign. But he’s actually a Capricorn.”

“Do you believe in all that astrology stuff?” Skye queried, wondering how the star-science fit into all the maths she’d been spouting earlier.

“Oh no,” she scoffed. “It’s just fascinating. I’m a Virgo.”

“Sure,” Skye laughed. “I don’t know what that means.” England seemed to be waiting for something and when she realised what it was she rolled her eyes. “April eighteen, if you must know.”

“Aries,” England said immediately.

“The fact that you know that off the top of your head scares me,” Skye told her. “Just saying.”

“Surely you know something strange like that,” she pressed.

“Um… I don’t think so? Does knowing the numbers of pi out to thirty count?”

“I guess. I know those too.”

Skye held up her hands. “I’m going to assume you have a freakishly high IQ, yes?”

“One hundred and eighty-seven.”

“Dude, you’re like… freaking _Einstein_!”

“Einstein’s IQ was one hundred and sixty,” England said with only the slightest touch of smugness in her voice.

“Oh, well then. What the hell do you do with all those… massive brains?”

“I only have one brain,” she began carefully. “But I’m a biochemist.”

Skye had to assume her blank expression spoke for her.

“I do research to find cures for diseases and things like that,” England went on slowly. Obviously she felt she needed to explain in words a five year old could understand. Skye tried not to be offended.

“So do you work for the government in some top secret base creating zombie plagues and stuff like that?” Skye chuckled.

“No. I’m primarily interested in how toxins produced as by-products from basic human technology are affecting the health of other animals,” England said. “Save the planet type work.”

“Oh… okay. I work at a firm in the city where we make our money by creating anti-virus programs, hacking through them and updating them pointlessly every year just to make a profit,” Skye drawled.

England arched one delicate eyebrow. “Is that how you feel about your job? If it is, I’d say you need a sea change.”

“God, no,” Skye said, beaming. “I love my job. Hacking is great fun. Plus at least if I do it like this it’s legal and I can’t get thrown in jail. One of my friends told me once it was almost certainly in my cards if I didn’t do something about it.”

“It being jail?”

“Yeah. I might’ve made breaking the law a hobby in my misguided youth.”

“You don’t look a day over twenty.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere, right?” Skye teased with a wink.

England went bright red. “That’s not… I mean. Oh. There’s a room available.” With that she slipped past a still grinning Skye and into the change room. “Won’t be a minute.”

Trying to take a little bit of a load off her feet, Skye leaned into the arched entrance to the stalls. It wasn’t particularly amazing relief, but her heels sure thanked her for it. Happily, England really didn’t take long to change, so Skye didn’t find herself lingering in the doorway for long.

She stepped out wearing a black and white spotted dress with buttons down the front and funny little turned down lapels that weren’t quite lapels but tried super hard to be. She was barefoot and the dress came down to her knees. Over one arm she had a wide black belt.

“I’m not sure about the belt,” England muttered. “And I think stockings might work better with this one but I don’t have any to try on with it.” She sounded almost sad about that.

“Pft,” Skye scoffed. “Stockings or no stockings would be fine. You’ve got nice legs, you’d be good. What does the belt look like?” Pink tinting her cheeks again, England held the belt up against her waist, head tilted in a question. “Maybe…” Skye mused. “What else have you got?”

England darted back into the stall and burst out a minute later wearing some green thing that Skye instantly vetoed. Next was a salmon creation that might’ve been nice except that the God-awful bow cinched around the waist couldn’t be removed like England had though and it was scrapped too.

“I take back what I thought before,” Skye grumbled when England stepped out in some seafoam looking dress that was so ruffled it might’ve been all that grungy green crap on top of waves with an oil-slick problem. 

“What’s that?” England asked, glancing down at herself. “You don’t think I look like a mermaid?”

Skye barked a laugh. “I think you look like you waded into algae infested waters wearing something that was once grey. Not a mermaid.”

She twirled the skirt. “But it’s shimmery.”

“Do you like it?”

England’s face crunched up in thought. “Not as much as when it was on the rack. What did you think before?” she asked ducking back into the stall.

“That you could make a hessian sack look hot…” Skye rolled that over in her mind. “And maybe that’s true, I’ve never seen it. But that pink thing was horrifying.”

“Pink’s not my colour then?”

“Well,” she whined. “I think it was just that particular dress. I maintain everything looks good on you. The dress was awful though.”

“That sounded vaguely hypocritical,” England giggled, her face appearing over the top of the stall door, a familiar flush to her face. “How can everything look good on me and the dress still be terrible?”

“It’s the dress’s fault,” Skye cried, indignant. “Not yours. You’re perfect. The dress on the other hand should be burned.”

England beamed at her and for a second, Skye couldn’t figure out why. Then, “Perfect, huh?” _Oh shit_.

This time, Skye was positive she was the one going red. “I mean… yeah, you’re alright.”

“Alright is quite a significant step down from perfect,” England pointed out, going back to changing, but still chuckling. “But whatever. How’s this look?”

And Skye’s heart stopped.

Blue was definitely England’s colour (she tried not to be mildly amused that blue was on the English flag). There were three layers, all relatively thin and different shades of blue. The top was a deep, rich colour, like a lake in the mountains. It had all these swirly patterns cut in it around the bodice and hem so the second layer – a slightly lighter, more like lightning – blue showed through. The third layer, barely peeking out past the first two was ruffled in a weirdly organised way that did more to highlight the darkness of the others than anything else. This last layer was the colour of a winter sky, of crystal clear ice in the Antarctic, of bluebells and forget-me-nots and the shade was echoed in the slender belt sewn into the midriff in a strangely elegant way. Strapless, knee length… yeah. This one.

“This one,” Skye breathed. “You look gorgeous.”

“Perfect?” England teased.

“Yeah. Definitely.” She didn’t even notice the twinkle in England’s eyes when she exhaled. “Perfect.”

“Stockings or no stockings?”

“No stockings.”

“Short coat?”

“Sure.”

England’s smile tilted up at the edges as she stepped over. Skye was much too busy ogling her to pay attention to anything else like how close the other woman stopped in front of her. “Jemma,” she muttered.

“Hum?”

“My name,” she chuckled. “It’s Jemma Simmons.”

That snapped Skye out of her trance. “Oh. Skye. Bennet.”

“Do you want to be my plus one to the wedding, Skye Bennet?” she asked cheekily.

Skye blinked. “You don’t know me.”

“So let’s go get lunch and you can fill me in.”

“That… was incredibly smooth,” she laughed. “Nice. Sure, let’s do that.”

England… um… _Jemma_ , did a little half-spin, the skirt of her dress swirling out causing Skye’s throat to go dry. “Just let me buy my dress and we’ll do that.”

“Absolutely,” she sighed. “Oh, shirt. Hang on. I’ve got to see if it’s the right one.”

“Be quick,” Jemma sang, disappearing to change.

Skye looked down at the shirt in her hand. Then she looked up at the closed stall door. Then she looked back down at the shirt and smiled in that helpless kind of way when there’s no permission given, but it has to happen anyway. So she stepped over to the very bored sales assistant cataloguing discarded articles of clothing.

“Can I give you this?” she asked, holding the shirt out.

“Wrong fit?” the young man asked.

The smile tugged her lips up again. “Better offer.”

He nodded in a distracted way and took it off her. Skye was back at the exit to the rest of the mall just as Jemma wandered out with a bag swinging from one hand. When she saw Skye still there, she grinned, looping their arms together.

“Let’s do some learning then,” Jemma muttered.

For once, Skye didn’t have any complaints about the idea.

And for once, she decided queues weren’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the flag is wrong. But Skye's only a high school drop-out. Forgive her for not being brushed up on her flags.


End file.
